


Of Roses and Rhapsody

by Alysx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Both of them lives, Don't worry, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Angst, Roses, Symbolism, Valentine's Day, good ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 01:52:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9797270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alysx/pseuds/Alysx
Summary: How should he express his feelings if he isn’t prone to making any important emotional declaration of sorts? Sentimentality is after all a weakness. To Sherlock, the answer to this question is simple. Symbolism. Subtle yet effective in getting a point across. Too bad it takes quite some time for the other party to catch on.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A fic for Valentine's Day. (Although it is rather late hahah) I just couldn't get this cute plot bunny out of my head till I wrote it out. Happy Belated Valentine's Day everyone! Follows the Sherlock plot from Season 1 till the Fall, then it diverges from there.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Sherlock characters.

Within the first two days of John’s acquaintance with Sherlock, he knew that his flatmate didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeves. Sure, he has his moments of irritation and boredom - the bullet-riddled wall in the living room can attest to that, but that’s merely the surface thoughts of the complicated man.

John may not be the best in observing and picking up details like Sherlock, but he still saw enough to get him by. Not everyone can be as bloody brilliant as the consulting detective after all. Thank God for that, the resulting world would be rather catastrophic. Just the thought of it caused John to shiver.

But coming back to the topic, John observed. He saw that Sherlock has a very strong control over his expression and emotions.

Right at the very first meeting they had at Bart’s. John stood by and saw how Sherlock had reacted to a smitten Molly. At every move Molly had tried to make, Sherlock deflected and rebuffed her with an unconcerned demeanour. Never once was he ruffled by her attempts, when someone else in his place would have caved in.

 

“Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides, and now a note. Oh, it’s Christmas!”

The following day at 221B. Right after the police left, Sherlock’s apathetic and poker face immediately fell away. He leapt into the air and twirled around the room happily.

The rapid flip of his flatmate’s reaction to the case had startled John a little. The solemn and tense atmosphere in the room dropped away instantly and gave way to a cheery and excitable mood. John thought Sherlock had looked rather like a child who finally gotten his candy, as he continued his excited chatter to himself about the case.

 

At the crime scene, John saw how Sherlock’s face shuttered close when a lady (Donovan, as John would later find out) approached the two of them and called him a freak. His gleeful and open expression disappeared as a sneer slid on. In John’s opinion, it looked rather like a cover or a mask, for the underlying hurt he likes to think he observed to be there.

 

So yes, overall John not only found his new flatmate to be a rather remarkable person, with the deductions and all. He also found Sherlock to be a tad reserved and private in terms of his feelings. Easily hiding and covering them with another front. Sentimentality was a weakness to him. Sherlock would snort, as he uncovered the different physical manifestations of John’s emotions, such as his journal or the online blog.

But it’s all fine, this new living arrangement. His flatmate might not be of the most straightforward or affectionate type of person, but John could deal with it. With Sherlock, his future seems to be rather intriguing and exciting, for once since a very long time.

 

* * *

 

In the first few days of living at 221B, John realised that his flatmate can be very odd.

Yes, he’s talking about all the strange habits Sherlock displayed.

 

Dozens of science experiments cluttered the flat. The occasional finding of human body parts in the kitchen and fridge. Sherlock muttering to himself as he works out a case. The texts from Sherlock to help him grab his phone which was in his own pocket, or to get more milk. The pacing and screeching of the violin late at night in the living room while John tried to sleep.

 

These ... quirks should have driven any sane man mad and packing already. However, John isn’t any ordinary man. He’s a soldier, albeit a wounded one. He saw many horrific scenes at the war. These eccentricities, instead of chasing him away, have grew on John. They were all endearing in a way, making his life so much more interesting. He didn’t mind ignoring the odd things that occur when he’s with Sherlock.

 

John was content.

 

That’s why within a week, John shot a man in cold blood to save that idiot. That idiot who went gallivanting alone after a serial murderer cabbie and almost got himself killed.

It was a split-second decision. John was at the opposite wing of the building when he saw Sherlock and the cabbie from the window. There was a flash of white pills in their hands, slowly moving up towards their mouth. John’s hand was already reaching for his gun before he realised it. His hand straightened and aimed instinctively. His hand no longer trembled and with a loud bang, the cabbie was dead.

 

That night, John and Sherlock went to Angelo’s to celebrate the end of the case. They reached home in wee hours of the night. John immediately headed to the bathroom to wash up. After exiting the bathroom, he crashed on the bed and dozed off.

John woke up the next day still groggy and disorientated. He rubbed the morning grit out of his eyes and yawned. While getting out of bed to open the curtains, he noticed a single stalk of rose on his bedside table.

Blinking and staring at it owlishly. “Was that even there yesterday?” John wondered.

Eventually, he shrugged it off as one of his flatmate’s bizarre experiments, and he rather not know about it. Ignorance is bliss after all.

 

**_1 rose- Love at first sight, you are the one_ **

 

* * *

 

After meeting Sherlock, John can’t keep track of the number of times he’s been kidnapped. Most of the times though, the ‘kidnappings’ were preluded by ringing public phones or sleek black cars trailing after him on the streets.

The current kidnapping method was new. Which pretty much doesn’t bode well for John.

He was manhandled into an inconspicuous white van as he was doing his shopping for milk. Now John may have been a soldier, but being jumped on by four armed and muscular men certainly gave him a valid reason for being overpowered, dammit! Wounded pride aside, John was shocked to come face to face with Jim from the IT department.

 

“Well Johnny boy, don’t take this personally, but the next round is due to start soon yes?” Jim smirked and spoke to him casually, as if he was merely commenting on the weather. During the little dialogue, the four men forced a semtex vest on him, while one of them constantly held a knife at John threateningly. 

“You’re Moriarty!” John blurted out.

“Yes! Well duh! The pet finally catches up. Just sit tight, the show’s about to begin!” He cackled delightfully as the van screeched to a halt.

 

To say John was displeased was an understatement.

Being herded to a swimming pool and finding out that Sherlock had planned this meeting with Moriarty was not how he wanted to spend the evening. Nor was it looking at his friend’s badly concealed tortured look as John repeated what the voice in his earpiece said.

During this whole debacle, John was moving on autopilot. Adrenaline fuelled him, thoughts swirled around his head but he could not focus on a single coherent train of thought. Like a bystander, he watched as his body surged forward to grip Moriarty while calling Sherlock to run. The defiance in Sherlock’s eyes as he refused to leave. The blinking red spots on their chests causing him to reluctantly release Moriarty.

And finally, looking at Moriarty as he pranced out while talking avidly on his phone.

Only then, the adrenaline left and his knees buckled, leaving him lying prone on the floor while Sherlock tore the semtex vest off him. Instead of chiding Sherlock for running after the culprit without him yet again, John drily commented about Sherlock stripping him. Sherlock’s concerned look broke as the corners of his lips twitched upwards involuntarily.

 

Both men went back to 221B in a companionable silence. There was an underlying tone of camaraderie and understanding between the two after that harrowing experience.

The next day, John woke up to the clanking noise from the kitchen. He yawned and slowly ambled down, only to find Sherlock bringing a pot of steaming tea into the living room. He poured the tea into two teacups which were already on the table.

“Tea?” John asked. This got him a deadpanned stare from Sherlock. John could hear in his head the sarcastic remark Sherlock plainly wanted to spill. His look screamed ‘Obviously, John. I applaud you for your wonderful observation skills.’

John snorted silently to himself and took the offered tea from Sherlock’s hand. His eyebrows rose as he had the first sip. Now that he tasted the tea, he realised it wasn’t their usual earl grey. The aroma smelled a tad sweeter as well. John went to the teapot and opened the lid. Inside was three roses, already losing their colour as they soaked in the hot water.

“Hey, since when did we had these flowers?” John asked Sherlock, who was already at the kitchen table, peering into the microscope.

“Hmm.” was the only reply John got as Sherlock continued to occupy himself with the apparatus.

 

Rolling his eyes, John went back to drink his tea and read the newspapers. He’s allowed to enjoy this calm morning, unwinding from the stressful night yesterday.

 

**_3 roses- I love you_ **

 

* * *

 

John stood on the street, staring upwards. With each word conveyed through the phone, the feeling of daunting horror grew in him.

“I'm a fake John.”

“The newspapers were right all along.”

“I want you to tell anyone who will listen that I created Moriarty.”

 

Unable to take it anymore, John snapped. “Shut up. The first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?” He didn’t understood why Sherlock was doing this. He’s really confused, and felt a swell of panic in his chest when he noticed how close to the edge his best friend was.

“Nobody could be that clever.” Sherlock retorted.

“You could.”

 

John couldn’t see Sherlock’s face from where he was. His best friend looked like a blob of black from the distance. But judging from the small sniffle and broken laugh through the phone, he reckoned that Sherlock was crying. Breaking and tearing apart. “I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick.”

“No, all right. Stop it now.” John tried to move forward to Bart’s. Perhaps he could reach the rooftop quick enough. Pull him down from the edge. Shake him by the shoulders, demand answers from him.

 

“No, don't move! Stay exactly where you are.” But Sherlock’s anxious voice sliced through any attempts of getting nearer.

“All right.” John placated, halting his stride forward and moved back a few steps to where he could see Sherlock’s figure on the roof.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?” His best friend’s voice cracked a little and held a pleading tone to it. His heart clenched at this.

“Do what?” John’s left hand which held the phone trembled minutely.

 _I would do anything for you Sherlock, so stop this insanity. Please. Get down, stop-_  

 

“This phone call, it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.”

“Leave a note when?” John whispered into the phone.

Dread rushed up and the panic from before came back in full force. He knew what was going to happened. Predicted it the very moment he saw Sherlock on the roof and started this very conversation. He feared that it was going to unfold exactly the way he thought it would. John wanted to run quickly to Bart’s rooftop right this instant. Stop this madness.

But, but- he couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock. He just can’t. Can’t move from that spot. Staring at his friend, perhaps the very last time he ever could.

 

“Goodbye, John.”

_NononoNoonoononoooo_

“No! Don't Sherlock! SHER-”

 

A resounding crack.

 

……

 

Numbness. That’s all John felt.

If only he stayed with Sherlock. If only he was faster in reaching Bart’s. If only- …

The prominent why question hung in the air as well. What possessed the genius to do something as idiotic as suicide? They were best friends. If this was some sort of ludicrous plan concocted by the genius, he would have told John, right?

The sense of hurt and loss permeated every fibre of John’s being as he sat blankly in their (no it’s only him now, right?) flat.

 

John shuffled in his chair, and took out his phone. The very last contact he had with his very best friend. Just by gazing at this contraption, he could remember distinctly the conversation they had. His voice and the vulnerability it held when he tried to discredit himself.

 

_That moment there, was the most human Sherlock had ever been in John’s opinion._

 

John’s eyes darken at the memory of it and his hands clenched tightly around his mobile. He had a strong urge to throw the phone to the far corners of the flat, out of reach, not dissimilar to the memory of his best friend’s corpse lying prone and bloodied on the pavement.

John breathed heavily and tried to rein in his thoughts. Just at that moment, his phone screen lighted up, an incoming message from Greg, asking if he was alright. However, what caught John’s attention was Sherlock’s name in a separate notification.

Hurriedly, John unlocked his phone.

_‘New inbox message - from user SherlockHolmes 7 hours ago’_

 

Sherlock private messaged him on his blog?

Doing his mental calculations, 7 hours equate to the rough timing of when John left Bart’s to check on Mrs Hudson…

His hands shook and pressed the notification to open it.

 

A loud gasp resounded through the room.

 

**_9 roses - An eternal love, as long as we live_ **

 

* * *

 

There wasn’t a huge turn up at Sherlock’s funeral. While Sherlock had no doubt touched many people’s lives and left a huge impression on them, there was only few he was close with. Hence the smattering of people at his funeral.

_I was so alone, and I owe you so much._

 

Everyone treated John as the de facto main mourner. They shot him sympathetic glances, or approached him to pass on their condolences.

Eventually, the people slowly trickled out of the funeral. The remaining ones took the hint and left in a bit as well, to give John some space and private time with Sherlock. 

 

He took a tearful breath and stepped up towards the grave. He gazed at it bitterly and from his person, retrieved _them_ from a small bag of his and placed _them_ by the grave.

“You know, most people tend to vocalise or at least display their affections. Not go about such a roundabout manner to do it…”

Sorrowfully, John reached for the gravestone. His fingers slid gently over the cool marble, as though he was caressing _his_ cheek.

“I just wanted to say… No matter what, I will always believe in you, Sherlock Holmes. And you are an absolutely brilliant man no matter what other people says of you.”

“After all,” he smiled ruefully, “they do little else but talk.”

John then turned and started to walk away, from his movement, anyone could tell that he was slightly limping. He moved a few steps only, before turning back to the grave. As though he couldn’t bear to leave Sherlock alone buried here, knowing he’ll be so bored by himself.

“If there’s just one more thing, one more miracle. Sherlock, for me. Don’t be,” John’s voice broke here as tears sprung up to his eyes. He took a deep breath to steady himself before continuing his sentence, “dead. Would you do that? Just for me, stop it. Stop this.”

 

John stared down at the grave for a few more moments. And he walked away, leaving behind ten roses on the desolate gravestone, while a lone man watched afar from the cover of the trees.

 

**_10 roses - you’re perfect_ **

 

* * *

 

On the death anniversary of one consulting detective, brought one broken doctor to a graveyard.

He came there as early as the sun. Sat there and seemingly chatted to the grave, holding a conversation as though the other party could hear and reply him.

If anyone would walk pass the lone male, they would hear snippets of conversation and laughter.

 

“Can you believe Anderson is coming up with wild theories about how you cheated death? No wonder you used to insult his intelligence.”

“Your brother is stalking me still… can’t he bother someone else or occupy himself with some cakes?”

“It feels weird working at the surgery full time without running around London and chasing after criminals with you.”

“There’s a new nurse called Mary, she seems rather interested in me, but everyone’s so dull and boring compared to you.”

“I finally fired my therapist who you’ve always bugged me about…”

“It feels odd living at 221B without finding any dead body parts. Mrs Hudson said so too.”

 

And at the end of the day, when the sun was going to set, the male stood up and stretched. He brushed off the dirt from his trousers which got on while he sat by the grave. Staring at the orange-hued sky, a soft tender smile graced his face, an expression that hasn’t been seen on the doctor since that tragic day.

When he left the grave, the was a stark contrast of bright red against the obsidian black grave, bringing life no matter how transient to the bleak place.

 

**_24 roses - Can’t stop thinking about you 24/7_ **

 

* * *

 

On the second year after Sherlock’s death, things were going the same for John. Even though Sherlock’s innocence was proven, the press always loved to follow him, treating him like some mourning widower.

John obliged them by staying in 221B when he’s not working so the press won’t be able to reach him.

On this particular day, he’s even more than happy to stay home the whole day. The most overrated day of the year has arrived yet again- Valentine’s.

John used to spend time with his girlfriends on this day. Going on dates at restaurants and watching movies. But after _his_ death, he just didn’t have the heart to date anymore. Even social interactions can be a chore at times. As occasionally, John will hear Sherlock’s voice in his head, scoffing at the person he was talking to, calling them an idiot or dull.

 

… His life was screwed over by Sherlock, even when the bastard was six feet under the ground.

Hence on this very night when couples were out in the streets celebrating and having the time of their lives, John Watson was sitting in his armchair at home. No, he isn’t sulking. Definitely not. No matter what Mrs Hudson says.

 

John was planning to have a movie marathon tonight, and was already settled into his chair preparing to start. That’s when the doorbell rang. He was rather surprised.

Mrs Hudson was out at her sister’s, both Greg and Molly had dates tonight, so who else could be at the door? Definitely not Harry with their track record.

John sat on his chair, not wanting to move, hoping the person at the door would leave soon enough. But the doorbell continued to ring. With a huff, John got up and went down to the door.

He wasn’t expecting to see a delivery boy at the door when he opened it.

“John Watson, sir?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

 

The boy quickly handed him a package and left after.

John was perplexed. He stared down at the A4 sized box in his hands. He didn’t think anyone he knew would send him anything.

Climbing back up to the living room, John fumbled with the package, trying to open it. When he finally opened it, he saw what was inside and promptly almost dropped it. Almost.

There was a sharp inhaled breath, and he gingerly placed the package on the table, as though it burned him.

 

There was a beautiful framed oil painting of roses inside. Slowly counting the roses, John’s breathing got harsher and harsher.

There wasn’t anyone else but _him_ who gave him roses before, and know none who would send him currently. Was it a sick joke of Mycroft’s? But John didn’t think he would stoop so low to defile his brother’s memory like this.

His fingers shakily searched about the package, finding an indication or clue about the identity of the sender. His fingers snaked across a textured card which he pulled out immediately. A low keening voice escaped his throat without his consent.

There was only a word on the card, but a familiar handwriting glared up at him. ‘Soon.’

_Was it …? Could he be?_

 

John chucked the painting and card together with the rest of the things he buried in the wardrobe, not wanting to give himself any false hope. That _he_ was actually alive somewhere.

However, the rising feeling of hope had already ignited and manifested in his chest, to extinguish it again was no easy task. That feeling of yearning and timid hope betrayed him.

John laughed bitterly and went back to his chair. He didn’t feel like watching the movie anymore.

 

**_21 roses - I am devoted to you_ **

 

* * *

 

Surprisingly, Sherlock’s return wasn’t as dramatic as how the man usually would act.

 

On a very ordinary day when John didn't have any work at the clinic, the doorbell rang mid-afternoon.

John at first didn't heed the doorbell any mind as Mrs Hudson usually was the one who opened the door and received any guests. However, he was soon alerted to the matter again when he heard her alarmed shriek and the shattering of whatever kitchen utensil she was holding while answering the door.

John rushed down immediately, prepared for some kind of confrontation. When his eyes landed on the subject who caused such distress to the lovely landlady, his body functions halted. John’s mouth was agape, eyes wide and legs rooted to the ground.

_Am I dreaming? Is that really him?_

 

When Sherlock spotted John, he gave him a small smirk, “Honestly John, do keep up. This is unbecoming of you.”

John’s mouth snapped shut. His brows furrowed down. There was an influx of red hot anger - _howdarehe-_ and he has the strong urge to deck him for the stunt he had pulled. But John saw the uncertainty in his best friend’s eyes, and all his anger melted away that instant.

John was just glad for him to be back. He stepped forward and engulfed him in a crushing hug, startling Sherlock who obviously was thinking of the worst case scenario. John clung onto him as though it was all a dream and he might disappear again, and Sherlock hesitantly raised his hands and put his arms around John as well.

“Welcome home, you daft git.”

 

That night, the two of them had a very private dinner in their flat after comforting Mrs Hudson that they’ll be fine. Both of them never left each other’s sight and stood closer than before, as though to make up for their lost time together.

There was a calm silence in the flat as both men didn't speak much but just basked in each other's presence. They had a quiet dinner together before turning in, finding their perfect equilibrium once again, as if Sherlock hadn't left at all.

John hadn't asked him about his reasons for faking death or why he didn’t inform John about it. There was always time for that later, and he could already deduce some plausible reasons himself.

Right now, he just wanted to relish in the calm and peace his best friend’s return has brought him.

 

Neither did John comment about the fifteen roses that were scattered across his bed when he went into his room.

 

**_15 roses - I’m truly sorry_ **

 

* * *

 

Life went back to normal after Sherlock was back.

 

They went to crime scenes together again. Irritated the Scotland Yard on a frequent basis, and giggled at crime scenes. John skipped work constantly, and went to chase after criminals around London. Or bought lots of milk.

He felt much complete and whole again when the Sherlock-sized gaping hole in his life was filled.

Then came the day Sherlock proposed. Not the cliché dramatic kind of getting down on one knee and taking out a ring mind you. Not that John could ever imagine Sherlock doing that.

 

It started out as a normal dinner night at home. They were discussing their latest case involving a married couple. The conversation topic soon took a wild turn into marriages in the 21st century being more liberalised.

John was actually surprised that Sherlock was still continuing to converse about such an irrelevant conversation topic, as he would usually just whine about it being dull and end off the conversation. (Later when he looks back, he suspects that Sherlock had meant to propose but had no idea how to go about doing it.)

 

“We should do it,” Sherlock blurted out.

“What?” John was astonished and blinked at Sherlock, not sure if he had heard it correctly.

Sherlock looked alarmed at what he had just declared and was slowly turning red under John’s scrutiny. “I-”

Before Sherlock could retract that statement, John stood up and crossed over to him. His hands reached out to hold the detective’s face in his hands delicately, and brought their lips together in a chaste kiss.

 

And so, in their own dorky and adorable way, they got engaged. Within the month, they signed their marriage certificate and held a small wedding ceremony. Most of the invited guest mostly rolled their eyes when they received their invitation, saying that it was about time they finalised it.

Mrs Hudson was tearing up and commenting how her boys have grown up, and Mycroft wore a smug grin throughout the ceremony.

 

Around the wedding location were 108 roses decorating the place and blooming widely for the special couple who’s extremely in love with one another.

 

**_108 roses - Please marry me_ **

 

* * *

 

Even the brilliant consulting detective and his loyal blogger can’t escape the claws of time.

With the passage of time, wrinkles started to appear, white hair becoming more prevalent. Joints creaked more often and body aches occurred more frequently. In their line of work, such things were rather blaring to notice, especially during a high speed chase.

Worst of all, the incident that jarred them to reality and realised that they were all getting older, was the passing of one Mrs Hudson.

It was a solemn and quiet affair, one which led to the couple’s decision to retire.

 

They chose a cosy cottage in Sussex Downs which had beehives, so that Sherlock can finally pursue his interest in beekeeping.

When they finally moved there, John was bewildered that Sherlock had insisted on a housewarming party. Not much of a party with just the two of them, but John had obliged.

Sherlock gleefully bounded towards the storeroom to take out a- _is that a piñata?_ John bit his lips to restrain his laughter, but Sherlock noticed everything, so he got himself a reproachful look as Sherlock handed him the piñata stick.

Looking between the piñata hanging from the ceiling, the piñata stick in his hands and his husband’s eager puppy look, John caved in. Feeling like a child again, he whacked at the piñata continuously.

The sight he displayed for Sherlock to see must have been immensely hilarious, because John suddenly heard snickers from his direction, before turning into full blown laughter from the man. John snorted indignantly and wanted to retort back, but at that instant, the piñata burst open.

 

Countless roses spiralled downwards on the two of them and John joined in the laughter, at his husband’s absurdity because _oh look, we have to clean up our new house again!_

In the midst of their laughter, their eyes connected. He stared at Sherlock, while he was in turned gazed back intensely by _his husband_. This caused the reality of their situation to crash on him. This was real. Sherlock’s alive. They’re both married and retired. They didn’t die chasing some criminal around, got shot or blown up. They’re both safe and retired and going to live the rest of their lives together,

With a slight sniffle, he swept forward and kissed his husband deeply, extremely grateful to whatever higher power there was that this was actually happening.

And in the warmth and safety of their home, two men embraced and locked their lips together, encircled by 100 roses which laid scattered on the floor.

 

**_100 roses - Remaining devoted as a couple till ripe old age_ **

 

* * *

 

And so, time moves on.

 

On a particularly bright summer afternoon, Sherlock burst into the living room excitedly. John who was reading a book and sipping tea, glanced up momentarily. “Hmm? What is it Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t verbalised a reply, but strode forward and grabbed his wrist. He tugged at it firmly, indicating for John to come along. His face showed his impatience, but also his giddy exhilaration. Which was rather contagious as John felt himself smirking and jogging along to wherever his _mad, mad_ husband led him to. He suddenly felt like he was in his 40s again and willingly followed Sherlock blindly to wherever he dashed off to.

Sherlock led the way and navigated onto the small pathway which leads to the beehives. At the sides of the clearing, there were many rose bushes, and the bees were flitting about the recently bloomed roses. John was awed at the pretty and tranquil sight.

Sherlock turned around, and made a pleased sound at John’s reaction. His animated and gleeful voice resonated in the clearing, “Look John! I’ve just counted all the roses here. There’s exactly 999 of them here. Isn’t that marvellous?”

 

With a soft smile, John went to the nearest rose bush and swiftly plucked out two of the roses, against the squawking protest of Sherlock behind him.

“Yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it?” He murmured, as he placed the two roses behind Sherlock’s and his own left ear respectively. Looking up at Sherlock, he laughed dazzlingly.

And both men shared a sweet and content smile together in this clearing, away from prying eyes.

 

John had long since figured out that Sherlock might not be the type to proclaim his feelings directly, choosing to instead convey it through other means. Ridiculous means like gifting him with roses. But it’s all fine, isn’t it?

 

**_999 roses - Everlasting and eternal love_ **

**_2 roses - Deep mutual love_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Anddd it's the end. Hope everyone had enjoyed this.
> 
> I had to try really hard to make this fic fit with the original plot. The Reichenbach scene took me the longest to write. It was so heart-wrenching oh my god I backspaced so many times there. And yes, if anyone was wondering, Sherlock actually sent John an image of 9 roses before he went up the roof to confront Moriarty. XD
> 
> The major character death warning was for Mrs Hudson, I wasn't sure if I should put it but ah well.
> 
> This fic is my first writing in a few months and the very first I actually dared to post. Also, this fic isn't beta-ed, so apologies for any errors you spot.
> 
> Do leave any feedback if you have any :)
> 
> Meaning of the number of roses was referenced from here: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/ba/97/79/ba9779448bec4668b57228af79b5f439.jpg


End file.
